


You Were A Fistfight

by onebatch2batch



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, and here we are 20k+ words later, i'm terrible with tags, this will earn the rating, yes this was born out of a shane walsh giftset on tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-28 22:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30146718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onebatch2batch/pseuds/onebatch2batch
Summary: The world is ending. And it’s happening as she sits at her kitchen island with an increasingly soggy bowl of cereal, wondering why the hell Foggy is calling her before eight in the morning on a Tuesday. She squelches her off brand Cheerios between her teeth and accepts the call.Zombie AU
Relationships: Curtis Hoyle/Jessica Jones, Frank Castle/Karen Page, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson/Marci Stahl
Comments: 42
Kudos: 56





	1. The Outbreak

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for all the support on tumblr for this fic. I know I've been teasing about it for weeks now and I'm excited to bring you the first chapter! As always, any kudos or comments make my life exponentially better. Also, this is kind of a slow burn, kind of not. You'll see. xoxo

Three weeks after Karen Page’s twenty-eighth birthday, the world ends. 

It’s not in an existential _I’m getting weird aches in the mornings_ and _the apartment below me plays their music too loud_ sort of way, either. That she’s been expecting since she turned a quarter of a century, but it seems like her mind hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that she’s closer to thirty than twenty, yet. And it’s not in a _my boyfriend dumped me when I thought he was going to propose_ kind of way; she hasn’t seriously dated anyone in years. 

No, her world isn’t ending-- _the_ world is ending. And it’s happening as she sits at her kitchen island with an increasingly soggy bowl of cereal, wondering why the hell Foggy is calling her before eight in the morning on a Tuesday. She squelches her off brand Cheerios between her teeth and accepts the call. 

“Hey Fog, everything okay?”

“Buzz me up, buzz me up!” He shouts immediately. 

There’s an unbridled panic in her best friend’s voice that she’s never heard before and it launches her out of her chair before she can stop to think about it. She fumbles with the buzzer and hears the reciprocating beep through her phone. Foggy is panting into the receiver, and it sounds like he’s taking the stairs--all four floors. The only time he’s ever done that is when the elevator broke down last year, and he bitched the entire way. Now he’s only gasping for air into her ear. 

“Foggy...you’re freaking me out,” Karen says, hovering by the door. 

“Good!!” he scream-whispers into the phone. His breathing is labored, so his words come out in a staccato rhythm that’s hard to follow. “You--should be--freaked out! This is -- this is _freak out worthy_! I’m almost there. Unlock the door!”

Karen flips the lock and backs away just in time for Foggy to come catapulting through the threshold. He’s dressed in a soft grey suit and a light blue button up. His long hair is frayed, and there’s sweat darkening the pressed material of his shirt. There’s no sign of his briefcase--the nice, monogrammed one she bought him last year for Christmas that he carries everywhere. He looks like he just got out of a street fight, not heading into work. 

The moment Foggy is inside, he tosses his phone to the ground. There’s no greeting, no joking laugh to tell her he’s just messing with her, nothing. He just turns both locks, dragging the chain over, and then starts to push at her entry table. It’s halfway in front of the door before she manages to rearrange her bewildered expression enough to speak. 

“Foggy! Foggy, what the _hell_ are you doing?”

“It’s bad, Kare,” he pants, pressing the table firmly against the door. Then he turns and swings his gaze around in search of something. She expects him to grab his phone, but instead he trots into her living room area and begins pushing at her armchair. He’s gasping with exertion when she places herself pointedly in his path. 

“ _Franklin Nelson_!”

He stops moving and stares at her. Sweat beads on his brow. He opens and closes his mouth wordlessly, and then hurries to her television and turns it on. Karen trails after him. She’s torn between exasperated and annoyed. Whatever he’s freaking out about, at least he could fill her in--but her emotions come to a screeching halt when she sees what's on the tv. 

_Breaking News_ flashes across the screen. The newscaster looks terrified and pale. The marquee at the bottom reads _Infectious disease captures New York -- stay indoors, do not make contact with the undead. Adhere to all police warnings. Arm yourselves. Do not leave your homes._ Karen reads it twice, and then lifts her eyes to watch the newscaster. He’s mouthing some words that she barely hears, but in the background she can see people running frantically past the window behind him. She knows Foggy is expecting a reaction from her, but she can only watch in disbelief. She can almost swear someone is--is _biting_ someone in the background.

“Is this a joke?” she asks finally. 

Foggy shakes his head. “No, I saw it with my own eyes, Karen. It’s _literally_ zombies. Like, eating people zombies. Movie zombies.” He shudders. “It’s awful.”

She sinks onto the couch. In an hour she’s supposed to be at work. She should be getting ready by now. “What--what do we do? What _can_ we do?”

“We block the door and we wait for help.” Foggy continues his task of pushing the armchair towards the door. As he passes her, she can hear him mutter under his breath. “And to think I was worried about asking for a partnership this morning.”

\--

They spend a week in her apartment--waiting, watching, hoping. For a while they consider making a break for it and trying to find other living people, but the constant shuffling and groaning outside her door belays that idea. Even if they were to somehow get out of her apartment building unscathed, where would they go? Karen wonders about the people she’s passed in the halls for the last five years of her life, if any of them have survived too. She wonders about Señora Cardenas down the hall, with her thick skin and kind smile. Has she found a way to stay safe? Or if she is one of the ominous footsteps in the hall?

So they stay put. Every day the news gets more grim. The newscaster--Antonio, Karen thinks to herself--has obviously not left the building, and he’s shedded his sportcoat. His dress shirt goes unbuttoned, revealing a sweat-stained undershirt. There’s stubble on his face and bags under his eyes. The window behind his desk has been covered with newspapers to prevent the zombies from seeing them, per Foggy’s theory. Newscaster Antonio rambles on at length about his predictions and hopes for the future. 

_Help has to be on the way. Until then we will stay here and stay strong. This is New York--we’ve been through worse._

_Zombies. Actual zombies. Sometimes I look outside and they’re just--....they’re everywhere._

_We’re running out of food here. There’s only a few of us, but the vending machines are running low. What I wouldn’t give for a hot dog with onions and mustard._

_You know, folks, I could really use a shave. If anyone wants to UPS a razor that would be great._

_It seems like the zombies--god, I still can’t believe I’m saying that--have broken into the building. I can hear them outside the door. We have barricaded ourselves in, but I think it’s only a matter of time._

_If they get to us, just know that I have loved this job, and I love my family. My kids, my wife...if you’re still out there--I hope you are--I hope you’re safe. I will always love you--all of you. For the rest of you, if there are people still watching, stay safe. Help each other, if you can. I think that’s the only way we’re going to survive this._

It happens a few days later. Karen and Foggy watch in horror as the zombies finally get through. Antonio is sitting at his desk, hands clasped before him. He looks exhausted, but when they get into the room he jumps up with renewed energy. He beckons his crew back behind the desk, using his rolling chair as a trajectory towards the hoard. Several of his crew members hold makeshift weapons with shaking hands, but the zombies pay that no mind. It’s an awful tangled mess of bloody limbs and decaying flesh. They crowd the desk with nightmare-inducing moaning, nearly blocking the camera from view. Nearly. 

Karen watches as several zombies get a hold of Antonio. One--bigger than him, and face grotesquely slack--promptly rips his throat out with it’s teeth. Karen shuts off the television. Foggy grips her hand tightly. When she looks over, he’s crying. 

The apartment has never seemed so small. 

\--

They do their best to stretch her groceries between the two of them. Foggy vehemently refuses Karen’s idea that they try and break into other apartments in search of more food, so they stick with what she’s got. There is plenty of canned food in her cupboards, even if none of it is particularly appetizing--especially when the power shuts off. Karen gets very used to lukewarm, canned green beans. They have the foresight to fill every available pot, pan and cup with water before that turns off too. After three weeks, they run out of booze.

“We even ran out of the schnapps,” Foggy groans, laying in the middle of the living room. “God, the smell out there is getting bad.”

Karen’s been studiously ignoring the growing stench of death leaking into , but at his reminder it returns at full force. She grimaces. They’ve been keeping the windows firmly shut as much as possible, but the summer heat is sweltering with no airflow. Foggy finally opened them the night before, sweating through his shirt, releasing an unimaginable smell. Karen spent several minutes over the kitchen sink, stomach rolling miserably. 

Now, she sits against her bookshelf and stares at the wall, knees drawn to her chest. There’s a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that she should be doing something. She should be keeping herself exercised or foraging in the nearby apartments or _trying_ , but it all seems pointless. Even if they were to somehow keep themselves alive for the next few months, what happens in the winter? There certainly won’t be any heating, and they’ll have run out of food by then. And then there’s the problem of water; they’re already rationing that as much as possible but they’re halfway through their supply. Every glance out the window below shows the crowds of undead that shuffle down the street in search for their next meal--getting out of her apartment building and somewhere safe seems like a pipe dream. If there even is anywhere safe. 

Karen closes her eyes without offering a response to Foggy’s alcohol problem and knocks her head back against the hardwood of the shelf. The worst part--the most agonizing part of this all--is the waiting. The _boredom_ . The thought makes her feel worse. Who knows how many people have died terrible, painful deaths in the last month and she’s concerned about being bored. God, she could use a whiskey. She’d even take more peach schnapps at this point, and that had been _awful_. 

It’s as she’s mentally constructing an Old Fashioned (cool and refreshing ice, the sweet zing of citrus, the full bodied burn of alcohol--all sweet luxuries she’s sure to never experience again) that she hears it: the sound of someone on the fire escape. And then a quick rap on the window. 

Foggy shrieks from his reclined position and scrambles backwards. “Zombie!! It fucking climbed, Karen!”

“I’m not a zombie, asshole,” the woman on the fire escape scoffs, but it’s muted through the glass. “I’m just looking for someone who’s not an animated corpse. Wanna let me in?”

Karen stands and makes her way over to the glass, bemused. The woman standing outside is dark haired and skinny with full lips and a serious frown. She’s got large, dark eyes that squint against the sun. Her jeans are ripped and tank top dark with sweat. When Karen stops before the locked window and hesitates, the woman rifles through the bag at her side and withdraws a bottle, shaking the amber liquid against the setting sun.

 _Whiskey_.

Karen lets her in.

\--

“I’m Jessica Jones, by the way. I live a couple floors down.” Jessica takes a pull of her whiskey bottle, seated on the windowsill. She passes it to Foggy, who continues his amazed but baffled stare even as he takes a drink. “I’ve been thinking about leaving my place for a while, but I wasn’t sure if anyone was still, y’know, alive.”

Now that she mentions it, Karen recognizes her. Just a little. Maybe they crossed paths getting mail before all this. She reaches for the bottle when offered. “I’m glad you did. We were starting to go a little crazy.”

Foggy grumbles his assent. “Have you heard from anyone out there?”

“Nope. Nobody to hear from.” Jessica shrugs. “Just got bored of waiting around.”

“Is it terrible that the world is ending and we’re worried about boredom?” Karen mutters. No one answers, not that she expected them to. “What do we do now?”

“Drink!” Foggy declares, toasting them both before gulping down another swig. He coughs at the burn of it, but passes the bottle back to Jessica with a grin. 

Karen huffs, but can’t help a small smile. Even in the face of the apocalypse Foggy’s enthusiasm is contagious, and the idea of forgetting about their situation for just a couple hours is enough for her to agree. They can figure out a plan tomorrow. For now, she reaches for the bottle and takes another much needed drink herself.

\--

“How do you think it started?” Karen asks, sometime later.

They’re all three laying in the middle of Karen’s living room, couch and coffee table pushed out of the way. If Karen turns her head, she can see Foggy on her left and Jessica on the right, their feet pointed away from each other in a haphazard star shape. The sun has gone down. Karen’s lone vanilla bean candle burns on the bookshelf, mixing with the sickly stench coming in through the open window. It gives them just enough light to see.

“Wha?” Foggy mumbles. “The zombies?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it was a government experiment,” Jessica interjects before Foggy can reply. “You know, chemical warfare?”

“But they’re risking infecting themselves,” Karen shoots back, humoring her. She’s not really sure who the _they_ is in this situation, but it’s worth mentioning. 

Jessica scoffs, rolling the empty whiskey bottle across the floor absently. “Not if they’re all in their top secret, underground bunkers shooting pool and sitting around buffet tables.”

“Bastards,” Foggy groans, rolling onto his stomach to peer at them. Karen follows suit, pillowing her head on her arms. “What if it was a freak accident? Some mutated gene?”

“That would mean anyone could have it.” Karen frowns, and they look at each other uneasily. “Which is crazy anyways, since it would have showed up way earlier. And the news said it was passed on by biting.” 

“Well sure, that’s their theory.” The bottle stops rolling as Jessica gestures towards the window. “But it’s not like they had time to test it.”

Karen hums in agreement. “That’s true.”

“I saw it happen,” Foggy whispers after another extended silence. “On my way here. I was waiting for the crosswalk a couple blocks over and--this woman just--she climbed onto this guy and started biting his arm--and growling, and there was blood everywhere--the guy just laid there--and I just took off. And came here. But the more I looked, the more I saw. There was one in your elevator.” He groaned. “I never climbed stairs so fast in my life. I thought I was a goner.”

“Christ.” Jessica props herself up on an elbow and frowns down at him. “There’s a ton of them in this building. I tried to get a closer look through the windows, but one noticed me. I think it was Ms...Donnelly? The one with the annoying chihuahua. She--or it, I guess--bashed it’s head into the glass until it shattered, and then stabbed itself through the eye. After that it didn’t move--so I guess that’s how you kill one. Headshot.”

Silence descends again as they absorb this information. No one seems keen to add on. Outside the window, if she listens close enough, Karen can hear the soft combined groans of the undead New Yorkers stumbling through the darkness. 

Karen swallows dryly. “We’re going to have to go out there, aren’t we?”

No one answers, but then again--they don’t have to. She already knows the answer. 

\--

One month to the day of the outbreak finds the three of them hoisting bags onto shoulders, tension thick in the air.

They have spent two days gathering what’s left of their supplies and making a plan. Jessica climbs back down the fire escape and returns with as much as she can: backpacks, clothes, food. A folding pocket knife. She manages to find another apartment on the way that is empty of zombies but has clothes to fit Foggy. He changes into them gratefully. Karen dresses in leggings and a t-shirt, strapping her tennis shoes on grimly.

“Everybody ready for this?” Jessica asks once everyone has got shoes and packs on. “We’re going to have to move fast and quiet. If we can get down South into the country, we might have a chance when winter hits. That means we have what, three months?”

Foggy nods. “Right. I figure if we average six hours a day walking, we could get down there in time. That’s if we can keep that pace, if we can find enough supplies, and if we don’t get eaten.” He gives them a thin, nervous smile. “No pressure.”

“Yeah, no pressure,” Jessica repeats dryly. “Alright, let’s get moving. Remember, constant vigilance. That’s our motto. We have kitchen knives for weapons--if someone gets caught we can’t help. Not until we find some guns. Or I’d even take a goddamn bow and arrow at this point.” 

“Could you really shoot a bow and arrow?” Foggy asks in wonder, following her towards the window. 

Karen inhales deeply and casts one last look around her apartment. Five years of her life and she’s leaving everything except a few pictures behind. Her bed, her television, her books. Everything has to stay while she risks her life on the off chance that they can find safety. If she thinks about it too long, she gets a strong urge to just go to her room and bury herself under the covers. 

Karen exhales heavily and forces her feet to move towards the window. Jessica has already climbed through. Foggy reaches out to squeeze her hand reassuringly. “Come on, Kare. Everything’s going to be fine. Are you ready for the field trip of a lifetime?”

She nods and offers him a smile that she hopes doesn’t look as scared as she feels. “I’m ready.”

\--

They start with plan A, which is to find Karen’s car a block over and drive their way out of the city. It is increasingly clear as they get closer that this is impossible--it seems as if all of New York has abandoned their vehicles in the streets. Getting her little sedan off the curb and down the road would be a fruitless exercise that they don’t have time for. 

Plan B: walk.

(Plan C is hole up in another building if they get caught in a hoard until it’s safe to continue moving. Karen desperately hopes this plan isn’t needed.)

Jessica leads their group through the vehicle-crowded streets. The plus side is that each car gives them additional cover if a zombie happens to turn their way, but it takes much longer to pick through the debris and wind their way down the roads. They spend an inordinate amount of time ducking with bated breath as one of the undead shuffles past. 

It’s such a bizarre, unbalanced feeling placing each step so carefully, surveying every inch they gain for a threat, that when Karen notices the kid, she doesn’t realize it for what it is. In fact, she almost calls out in alarm at the young boy standing in front of a shop window. He’s unmoving in front of the display, gazing at the litany of toys just beyond the glass. He can’t be any more than six years old, his hair a messy mop on top of his head. He’s in a t-shirt and shorts and bright yellow rain boots. Before Karen can urge him over, Foggy’s hand tightens on her arm in alarm, forcing her to look closer. 

His reflection is missing the lower half of his jaw. 

_I’m going to throw up,_ Karen thinks faintly, and then she’s being towed in the opposite direction. The zombie boy doesn’t seem to notice them, still staring silently at the toys just out of reach. 

“We need to get far enough away that we can jumpstart a car and actually drive it,” Jessica growls, glaring pointedly at the abandoned cars blocking any chance of driving. “Come on, stay on the main streets. The last thing we need is to be cornered.”

\--

It takes them four hours to go twelve blocks. If this were Karen’s normal work day, she’d be taking the subway a couple more blocks South. She’s exhausted. She wouldn’t call herself a particularly active person--especially after the last month--and her bag wears a veritable shittton after carrying it for so long. Her back and shoulders ache, and the humid summer heat is soaking her clothes through. She’s also burned an angry pink from the sunshine after being trapped inside for so long, making every shift of the straps on her shoulders painful. 

“There,” Foggy whispers as they watch a zombie drag itself down the street from behind a Buick. “There’s a grocery store that looks pretty abandoned. Should we try it?”

 _Grocery store_ is an overstatement. It’s more of a bodega corner store than anything, just big enough for a handful of people inside. Nevertheless Karen is already picturing water, rest, and food. 

“Yep, sounds good to me.” Jessica pops her head above the car and takes a slow look around. “Okay, there’s another car halfway that we can stop behind. Coast is clear, go!”

They run-shuffle as quietly as possible to the stranded taxi cab in the middle of the road, but just as they duck behind it a zombie rears up and looks straight at them from the opposite side. It makes a feverish shrieking noise and launches towards them, catching itself on the car’s hood. They stand stock still, watching it struggle to climb towards them. Thankfully it’s too short to do much more than reach and it doesn’t seem to have enough brain capacity left to go around. 

“I’m gonna be sick,” Foggy mutters, grimacing. 

“I got it,” Jess responds grimly, wielding Karen’s biggest kitchen knife. She edges closer. 

The zombie swipes at her with bloodied fingers, visibly excited. It’s already begun to decay in some parts and as Karen watches, blood drips between it’s lips to pool on the hood of the car. She feels her stomach lurch unhappily. Jessica steps closer and brings down the knife. The sickening crunch of metal meeting bone makes them all wince, and then the zombie slumps over the vehicle and stills. 

“C’mon,” Jess says heavily, yanking the knife out from the eye socket. She wipes the blade on it’s clothes. “Loudmouth asshole probably attracted more.”

They hurry to the bodega and manage to get inside just as another zombie appears across the street, attracted by the noise. Foggy locks the door and the group backs away quickly, out of sight, until the shuffling stops at Jess’ first kill. 

“What’s it doing?” Karen whispers, trying to see. Foggy is standing in front of her. Jess disappears to make sure there’s no more of the undead in the back. 

“You don’t want to know.” He sounds like he’s going to hurl. 

Karen peeks out the door and instantly wishes she hadn’t. The zombie is bent over it’s fallen comrade has begun gnawing on the other’s grimy arm. She grimaces and pulls back quickly, breathing through her nose. “Okay, yeah. You were right. We should block the door.”

They move as quietly as they can, placing whatever is big enough and in reach in front of the door. Thankfully it’s not just glass--there’s a metal grate over it. That gives them a little more security for the night. Finally, they move towards the back of the store just as Jessica reappears. 

“Well, we have somewhere to sleep and food to eat. Best we’re gonna get for tonight, team.” She drops her bag on the ground unceremoniously, reaching for a bag of Cheez Its. “Also, I found a gun under the counter. I can’t find more bullets, but at least we have a back up if the knife doesn’t work.”

Karen helps herself to a bag of white cheddar popcorn, looking around the small store. There’s rows upon rows of junk food on the shelves, and there’s even some over the counter medicine that she makes a note to grab later just in case. She kicks her bag out of the way to search for her next snack. “That’s good news. We should probably try to find more guns. Foggy, can you shoot?”

He chews thoughtfully on a bag of pilfered cookies. “Uhhh, not really. I might have shot one when I was younger, but it’s not really my thing.”

Karen grabs a granola bar and takes a seat beside him, sighing. Her entire body aches. “You’re going to have to learn, if we ever find another one.” 

Foggy nods his dubious assent and catches the water bottle Jess throws from the fridges. They’ve long since shut off, but room temperature water is better than none. As Karen gulps her own down, her eye catches on something behind the counter. “Oh, look! Alcohol!”

“Bad idea.” Jessica’s tone tells them she would very much like for it to be a _good_ idea. She forcefully turns away her gaze and upends the rest of the Cheez Its bag into her mouth. Once she’s finished with that, she sighs unhappily. “Damn it, what a time to be sober.”

Karen can’t help but agree. 

It gets dark quickly after that, and Jessica suggests they get some shut eye and wake up early with the sun. Foggy and Karen don’t mind her calling the shots--she has a knack for it. _And the stomach_ , Karen thinks as she remembers the squelch of her knife being ripped out of that zombie’s head from before. It’s not something she’s interested in trying herself, if she can help it. 

They each take their own aisle, cushioned from the hard linoleum by only their spread out jackets. Karen stares at the rows of bubblegum in front of her, straining her ears for any sign of the undead outside the door. It takes a long while for sleep to take her.

She dreams of tiny yellow boots splashing through puddles of blood. 

  
  



	2. Chapter Two

In another life, Karen Page loved the winter. There’s always been something inherently cathartic about opening her blinds in the morning to see a flurry out snowflakes outside her window, disguising the rest of the world. She used to love the bite of cold as she walked from her apartment to her job. The chill outside was always just an excuse to stay inside on the weekends in her pajamas with a hot cup of coffee and some terribly corny sitcom. 

That was in the time before, when they could afford luxuries. The luxury of a warm shower; the luxury of having to walk to work in the cold; the luxury of watching a scary movie from the comfort of your couch rather than living through it. Karen dreams of the luxury of warm coffee in the morning and the sweet smell of her bergamot body wash. It’s been four months since they left her apartment building and they’re no closer to safety than before. 

_ Month four on the road _ . Karen’s boot lands unceremoniously in a particularly deep pile of snow. She grimaces, yanking it out to continue on after Jess and Foggy. _ Let’s review the facts.  _

First: it’s been almost half a year since the zombie apocalypse happened, and somehow they’re all still alive. Most days she can’t wrap her head around that. Just last week Jess crawled through a window to unlock the door of an abandoned house and nearly had her fingers ripped off by the zombie lurking inside. The week before Karen tripped on a body that wasn’t quite dead yet and was lucky to have been wearing boots to defend herself from a bite. There’s been too many close calls to count. 

Second: Karen has gotten very good at keeping a watchful eye while also keeping herself silently entertained. She, Foggy and Jessica don’t speak much on the road in case there's a hoard of zombies around to hear. Their new backpacks--courtesy of an outdoor recreation outlet back in Pennsylvania where they picked up some invaluable camping gear and cold weather clothes--cause enough noise as it is. So to keep herself from going crazy in the silence, she often pictures what she’ll cook if she ever has access to a working stove again. No more granola bars and bags of salty chips. She imagines cooking her grandmother’s hearty, warm beef stew recipe--the one with fresh vegetables and chunks of succulent, flavorful meat. Sometimes she also imagines an entire mixing bowl of salad filled to the brim with vegetables. She is so tired of snack food. 

When thinking of food is too bittersweet, she mentally writes an thinkpiece about the merits of traveling on foot versus a vehicle in the apocalypse to keep entertained. Other times she pictures what she would be doing if the zombies never showed up in the first place. On bad days, she tallies up how many of them she’s killed.

The third and most inconvenient fact: she has the flu. 

At first she thinks her symptoms are just from the change in weather. They’ve crossed the border into Maryland but it’s not far enough south to escape the harsh Northern winter. The temperature has dropped drastically in the past few weeks and snow has begun to fall. It’s miserable. They’re lucky to have picked up better gear, because even with thick wool socks and an insulated coat Karen has numbness in her toes and shivers with every gust of wind. She also has a pounding headache and body aches--which she accredits to fighting through a foot of snow with a heavy pack on while being malnourished and dehydrated. In fact it’s not until she develops the runny nose and chest cough that Karen realizes her symptoms are just that--symptoms. 

“Well yeah, Blondie,” Jess scoffs when Karen brings it up over a dinner of trail mix and beef jerky. “You’re sick. Keep your germs on that side of the room, we can’t afford for all of us to get it.”

So Karen suffers through her symptoms, keeping an eye out for medicine anywhere they stop. Most buildings they occupy overnight have no power, no heat, and sparse food. They huddle together in their sleeping bags and try to stay warm enough until sunrise. Karen usually alternates between shivering and sweating, attempting to pretend she doesn’t feel like a zombie herself. It’s the outcome they were trying to avoid leaving New York all those months ago: slowly freezing to death.

Hiking all hours of the day is hard enough, but adding the weather and her symptoms, Karen can barely keep herself moving. The cough is the worst part. She tries to keep them quiet enough to not distract attention, but the tickle in her throat grows with every inhale. Stopping to recuperate isn’t an option--with the weather getting colder, they’re on borrowed time to make it to the south. If they get stuck in Maryland without proper food or shelter...well, she doesn’t want to think about that. 

Last night had been especially hard. Karen didn’t slept at all, and she’s sure both Foggy and Jess struggled to sleep with her constant noise. They’re all far past exhausted and desperate to find medicine, warmer weather, or somewhere with power. Or the jackpot: all three. 

Karen presses her face into the crook of her elbow and tries to expel the fuzzy feeling in the back of her throat quietly. By her friends’ sharp looks, she knows she isn’t entirely successful. They’ve been on the road a few hours today, headed towards Virginia. Thankfully they haven’t seen any zombies in almost a mile because avoiding snow drifts is hard enough without having to look for reanimated corpses at the same time. 

_ It’s a new record _ , Jessica had snarked at the front of their group. She’s been in an especially sour mood today, but Karen can’t blame her. It’s the end of the world and her survival depends on a sick journalist and fretting attorney keeping up with her relentless pace. 

Foggy is a little more gracious. He keeps in line with Karen and shoots her worried glances until she starts to go a little crazy. The fourth time in an hour has Karen praying for patience.

“Foggy.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop staring at me like I’m dying.”

“Well to be fair, you kind of look like you might be.” He winces at her glare. “I really think we should stop and you need to get some rest.”

Karen rolls her eyes, but it’s not as effective as she would like when the pain in her head sharpens at the movement, making her grimace. “Foggy...you know that’s not a good option. We’re just sitting ducks anywhere we stop, and until we find somewhere with heat, what’s the point? I’ll just be sick  _ and  _ cold.”

“We can make another campfire in a trashcan or something, New York hobo style. Come on, Karen. This is bad. You need sleep.”

He’s right, and the idea of warmth and sleep is too good to pass up. “ _ I’m _ not bringing it up to Jess.”

Foggy groans softly. He jogs to catch up with their unassigned-assigned group leader and the two of them bend heads for a moment before Jessica finally nods and turns to wait for Karen to catch up. “God, I’ve been waiting for you to cave all damn day, Page. You’re basically a foghorn of sound right now. It looks like there’s some kind of motel up ahead that we can stop at. Nelson and me can go find supplies while you get some beauty sleep.”

Foggy looks as if he does not appreciate this news. “Shouldn’t we stick together?”

Jessica is already walking again. They almost can’t hear her over the sound of the wind. “Nope, Page needs meds and we need food. Might as well find some before the sun goes down. Did I mention I hate winter?”

Karen gives Foggy a shrug, trailing after Jessica with one last miserable sniffle. 

\--

The snow is falling in thick sheets again by the time they make it to the motel. 

Another gust of wind bursts over them, sharpening the sting in her cheeks and the pain in her head. Karen bites the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning outloud, hoping for some kind of relief inside. There’s no zombies milling about in the parking lot, but she and Foggy keep watch while Jessica manages to break open the door. The place was probably pretty seedy, back before people didn’t care about that kind of thing. There’s a few scattered chairs along the walls and a large desk with an deserted computer. Behind the desk is a wall of keys. There’s an abandoned cup by the keyboard with a lipstick stain on the rim. In the dim winter light, the place looks downright desolate. 

It’s definitely an improvement from the wind, though. 

No zombies have come out to inspect the noise they’re making, so Jessica waves the other two further inside and walks around the desk to examine the keys. They’re legitimate keys, which is good considering the building has no power. It’s still fucking freezing. Not that any of them expected differently at this point--they’ve been living off metal trash can fires and extra layers. As Jessica picks out a few keys, Karen shoves her gloved fingers in her pockets and sways on her feet in an attempt to get some blood flowing. She fights the urge to close her eyes. 

Foggy knocks Karen’s shoulder as they wait. “You really do look awful.”

“Gee, thanks Foggy,” she deadpans. 

“It’s the last time I’m gonna say it. But promise me you’ll try and sleep while we’re gone? Don’t worry about us while we’re gone.”

She wants to argue, but exhaustion slams into her. She’s starting to feel a little lightheaded. “Alright, fine. For the record, I think we should all just lock ourselves in a room and sleep, and then find supplies tomorrow. Together. If you guys get attacked out there and leave me, I’m going to kill you.”

“That a promise, Blondie? I really don’t want to be a zombie forever, so you’re going to have to take us out if we get turned.” Jessica rejoins the group and beckons them down the hall, ignoring Karen’s annoyed scoff. “Let’s go, guns up.”

They move cautiously down the hallway. It’s extremely quiet in the motel. They manage to find a semi-clean and empty room with one of Jessica’s keys that has two queen beds in the middle of the floor, a tiny desk in the corner, a useless television, and a good sized, unusable bathroom. Karen looks at the shower longingly as she passes. She would kill for some hot water. Instead, she leaves her coat on and sits heavily on the first bed, unclasping her backpack. She shoves it onto the floor unceremoniously, rolling her aching shoulders with a sigh. 

Jess removes her own bag and starts dumping it on the second bed. “There was a pharmacy down the road. I think Foggy and me should check it out. Anything useful I’ll bring back. Page, you get some sleep while we’re gone--maybe we’ll try to stay a couple days and wait out some of your symptoms.” 

That sounds like both heaven and a terrible idea, but they can talk about it later. She nods. “Be careful.”

“We’ll be fine.” Foggy gives her a small smile, squeezing her hand as he passes. “Sleep, Kare.”

Once they’re gone, Karen casts an eye around the room. The trashcan is plastic. She makes a face at it sourly and then crawls backwards onto the bed in her coat and boots. As she yanks the comforter over herself burrito style, she has a faraway thought that she should lock the door before she remembers that zombies can’t turn knobs. Karen tries to picture it and smiles grimly at the scene her brain produces. It’s her last thought before she falls into unconsciousness. 

\--

It’s been a long fucking time since Frank Castle has been this miserable. 

Sure, he was miserable when his family died. He was miserable when the fucking world imploded and took most of humanity with it. He was miserable when he lost Billy to those undead bastards. But right now with the snow up to his calves as he fights through the wind to find some shelter--this is the most miserable he’s been in a while. If a zombie came up on him right now, he’s not sure he could even bend his frozen fingers enough to shoot or grip a knife. It’s not a pleasant thought. He’s considering just turning back and heading to camp to try again tomorrow when he sees them: footprints in the snow. 

They’re leading towards the motel. Frank stops short, counting the tracks. 

Three people. A group, looking for shelter.

Fuck turning back. 

Frank braces himself against the wind with renewed vigor and picks up the pace towards the motel. Inside it’s unsettlingly quiet, but there’s snowy tracks that continue down the hall to one of the rooms. He considers knocking, but if he’s mistaken and there are zombies around, the last thing he wants is to draw them out. Even so, there’s a feeling lodged in his ribs that’s telling him there are real, living people inside. 

When he opens the door, there’s just one. 

Frank lowers his gun and stares at the woman on the bed closest to the door. She’s essentially cocooned herself in the comforter, but her hood is up on her coat and he can tell there’s still boots on her feet under the blanket. There’s a handgun on the side table in the middle of the room. In several quiet steps, he circles the bed and grasps the gun, sticking it in his belt and out of reach. Once that’s done, he turns back to survey the woman herself. She doesn’t look too hot, up close. Her lips are dry and chapped, her cheeks flushed with either wind burn or fever. The hood covers most of her hair, but what sticks out underneath is a stringy, hay colored blonde. She’s restless even in sleep, chest rising and falling unevenly. A deep, painful sounding cough escapes her lips every few breaths.

In another life, in the Before, she was probably a fucking stunner. Now her cheeks are sunken with hunger and the bruises under her eyes hint at a lack of sleep. Not that she’s not unattractive, she’s just probably been roughing it longer than she should be. He probably wouldn’t look too glamorous in her position, either. Frank’s chest twinges in sympathy, and he takes another cautious step forward to place the back of his hand against her forehead. It’s clammy with sweat, despite how freezing it is in the room. 

She’s either sick as a dog, or on the way to being one of  _ them _ . Maybe that’s why the other two footprints are gone, maybe they left her here to avoid seeing it happen. 

Just as he’s pulling his hand away, considering whether to shake her awake or just wait it out, she rolls over and looks straight at him. 

\--

It seems as if she’s only just closed her eyes when they’re forced open again. 

Karen stares blearily at the ceiling and shivers deeper into her coat, wondering what exactly had prompted her to wake. There’s no tell-tale moans and groans signifying the dead, and in fact the room is completely quiet. Nothing is trying to take a bite out of her. Foggy and Jess must still be out. She rolls to survey the other side of the room for what woke her and goes still when she realizes she’s not alone. 

“Hello,” the man standing beside her bed says cautiously. 

Karen stifles her gasp and clambors to her feet. It’s a struggle with the way she’d be wrapped up in the blanket and by the time she’s standing with the length of the bed between them, her head is pounding again. She fights through the ache in her temple to find her gun. It had been right next to her, maybe on the bed?  _ No, the side table. _ A quick glance reveals that it’s gone. Her throat bobs. The man’s hand retracts, and she realizes that he’d been feeling her forehead just before she woke. She fights the urge to rub away his touch. 

“Give me my gun,” she demands, but it comes out wispy and strained. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears and her mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. She’s also fucking freezing, limbs stiff with cold. 

The man doesn’t move. He surveys her carefully, heavy brown drawn. “Are you sick?”

It’s a loaded question. She wonders how bad she truly looks if he believes she’s changing over to one of  _ them _ . Karen grimaces. “I haven’t been bitten, if that’s what you mean.”

He relaxes but only marginally, and then tosses something towards her. It lands on the bed: a bottle of water. And next, a granola bar. Karen doesn’t move, though her stomach rumbles insistently. “Why don’t you eat somethin’? You uh...sorry, but you don’t look great.”

“So I’ve been told. Give me my gun.” She pauses. If he’s offering food, maybe he’s not too bad. He certainly could have killed her by now, if that is his goal. “...please.”

She likes to think of fear as adaptive. In her old life, she was afraid of walking down a dark street by herself, or the weird guy on the subway who stares a little too long. In her new life--in the apocalypse--she’s afraid of being bitten and her friends turning to human popsicles overnight. It takes a moment to understand that both types of fears are willing to share real estate in her head simultaneously. This man is part of the first type of fear. He has an obvious advantage--on top of being twice her size, he looks relatively healthy. Surprisingly healthy, actually, for the end of the world. His stance is sure-footed and calm; he doesn’t even lift the assault rifle hanging from his shoulder strap. If he wanted to attack her, it would be short work. Yes, Karen is definitely afraid of what he could do to her when she’s unarmed.

She wonders where Foggy and Jess are. 

The man seems to think it through and then pulls her gun from his belt. She tenses, watching as he checks to ensure the safety is on, and then tosses it onto the bed between them. Karen snatches it up, checks the magazine, and sighs in relief to see it’s still full. She can defend herself, if worse comes to worse. 

When she looks at him again, she thinks she glimpses a hint of approval. He turns and moves towards the opposite wall, sitting in the chair at the desk. He gives her an appraising look. They watch each other warily, each with a hand on their weapon. Finally, the man removes his hand and sits back. “You look like you’re gonna fall over. Have you got any medicine?”

“It’s just a cold,” Karen tells him, letting her gun fall to her side. Her statement sounds petulant and uncertain. A wave of exhaustion crashes over her again, threatening to buckle her knees. She sighs irritably and clenches her teeth to stop the cough threatening to spill out “I just need--fuck. I just need to  _ sleep _ .”

He cracks a humorless smile. “Don’t we all. I’m Frank Castle. Please eat somethin’, and then we can talk.”

She doesn’t sit, but she does decide if she has to fight him off, it’s better to be hydrated and only half starved rather than completely starved--and the food might do her migraine some good. First she drains half the bottle of water in one go and feels much better for it. She hadn’t realized just how thirsty she was. As soon as her tongue feels less like sandpaper, she dives into the granola bar. It’s peanut butter flavored speckled with mini chocolate chips. It’s decadent and delicious. She eats slowly, acutely aware that she can’t remember the last real meal she’s had. As she eats she watches her unexpected company and tries to puzzle him out. 

Frank Castle doesn’t move and seems content to let her look. She starts at his face: there’s a nice salt and pepper beard that’s forming there, but it doesn’t cover the sharpness of his jaw. Nothing could hide that. He’s got a rather large nose, but somehow it fits with his tall brow and large ears. His hair is longer and thick. It also looks freshly washed. He’s actually really good looking, now that she’s sure he isn’t planning on killing her. Her gaze drops down to survey his chest, covered in a dark kevlar vest. He looks very at home in military dress, dark clothes and heavy boots. His trigger finger taps on his knee. By the time she returns her gaze back to his face, he’s raised an eyebrow. 

Karen finishes off the water bottle and screws the lid back on. She feels only a bit better. “Thank you.”

Frank nods, shifting slightly to settle in the chair. “Wanna sit?”

“Not really, no.”

He huffs a reluctant laugh. “Okay. You got a name?”   


“Karen Page.” Now that she’s eaten something small, her stomach cries out for more. Real, warm food. She feels stupidly weak and her head still throbs even if it’s less intense than before. What she wouldn’t do for some hot tea with honey, maybe a splash of whiskey. “Are you alone?”

“No. Are you?”

“No.” She has to pause for the cough that takes over. “My friends--they should be back soon.”  _ I hope. _

“Look, Karen, I’m not gonna hurt you.” His expression shifts into something softer and reassuring. Frank leans his AR against the wall an arm’s length away before he rocks forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. “We’re out looking for survivors.”

“Who’s we?”

She wants to sit so badly. In fact she wants to crawl under the bed’s covers and yank the blanket up over her head for the next week. She wants warmth. She wants to know why this guy looks so healthy while she feels like she’s one foot in the grave. 

Frank gestures vaguely. “Me and Curtis. He’s back at our camp.”

“Okay.” She allows herself to sink onto the edge of the far bed, gripping her gun tightly. Any movement from him and she’ll shoot--but she’s so tired. The world has started to spin slightly. She struggles to find a safe topic, something to keep him talking until her friends return. The effort to speak is monumentous. “Where are you from?”

The question seems to catch him off guard. “New York,” he says after a brief pause. “You?”

She cracks a small smile. “All three of us are from New York.”

Frank chuckles again, and she has to admit it’s a pleasant sound. All deep and raspy. “You folks headed anywhere in particular?”

Are they? Karen thinks back on the last four months of wandering, of hoping, of fighting and anger. She remembers the theories, about the CDC and Washington DC, about how there must be help somewhere. Traveling during the winter has been hard with limited daylight, limited resources, and the bitter cold. They had only got as far as Maryland when they should’ve been through Virginia by now. Wherever they had originally intended to go, they’re getting nowhere fast.

Frank must read it on her face, because he hums softly. “I get it. We’re building something, Curtis and I. Started a...group, I guess.”

She refocuses with difficulty. “A group of what?”

“Survivors.”

Just that, put so simply. Karen stares at him, sure the longing is showing on her face. “Is it safe?”

“So far. We’re workin’ on it every day. There’s room for all of you. We got a doctor. A greenhouse. Workin’ plumbing, everything.”

She so desperately wants that. A sense of community. A sense of safety, of permanence. She’s been unmoored for so long. Karen thumbs the barrel of her gun absently. “I can’t speak for them,” she says finally. “We’ve been together all along, I can’t--I won’t--make that decision.”

He’s already nodding. “I get it. Look, I’m gonna go and--”

Whatever he was about to say is cut off by the soft, desperate noise of protest that escapes her throat. She doesn’t mean it, really, and she blames it on how weak she feels and the fact that she’s about to watch another living, breathing human just walk away. A living human being who is offering something they’ve only dreamed of for months. 

“Stay,” she says quickly at his bemused look. “They should be back soon, and I don’t want to lose track of you.”

He settles back into his chair and frowns. “Alright,” he says finally. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

\--

It’s nearly another hour before Jess and Foggy return, and in that time Karen shuffles under the covers and sits against the headboard, rubbing her gloved hands together. Now that they’ve spoken, she feels a little more relaxed with Frank. Maybe that’s stupid. Maybe she’s too exhausted to give a shit. She feels as if the very blood in her veins is crystallizing. Frank seems content to sit across the room, even going as far as to clean his gun while they wait. He seems to realize she’s not in a talking mood, however, because he only speaks when she does. Or maybe he’s trying to put her at ease. When the door does finally open after a short knock, she gives both her friends a tired, wan smile.

“Hi,” she says, and then-- “Don’t panic.”

Both sets of eyes swing between the two of them. Jessica drops her bag and steps towards Karen protectively. She keeps her gun up. “Who are you?”

Frank doesn’t move. “Frank Castle, ma’am.”

She’s not appeased by his politeness, if her scowl is anything to go by. 

Foggy shifts nervously. His gun looks awkward and heavy in his hand. “Karen, what’s going on?”

“Frank has a community,” she tells them quickly. “He says it's not far from here.”

“Convenient.” Jess mutters, eyeing him. “What kind of community?”

“A safe one,” Frank replies evenly, not breaking eye contact. 

“No such thing.” Jess is still not in a good mood. Karen suspects that has something to do with how empty her bag looks. She opens her mouth to reassure her friends but dissolves into a coughing fit. The room settles into an uneasy silence until she finishes.

“I think we should go,” Karen says once she can breathe normally again. “We can’t wander forever. We don’t have a plan. We don’t have food. We’re running low on ammunition.” 

“And we have medicine.” Frank looks at her meaningfully as he says this. They lock eyes from across the room, and the tension in her spine loosens. For some reason, she trusts him--and he’s their best option for surviving the winter. “I’m not gonna make the decision for you, but I’m due back soon. I can come back in a couple days, if you want to talk it over.”

Karen breathes into her cupped hands and watches her friends exchange glances. Jess has backed down, but there’s still a scowl on her face. Finally, Foggy looks back at him and nods. 

“We’re in, Mr. Castle. If you’ll have us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, all kudos and comments are so appreciated <3

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Fistfight' by The Ballroom Thieves


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